


Lost & Found

by lady_wordsalot



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, One Shot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 13:56:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11014797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_wordsalot/pseuds/lady_wordsalot
Summary: Hermione gets lost in the Forbidden Forest on a camping trip with her husband, Ron. Weeks later she stumbles onto Shell Cottage and its owner, Fleur.





	Lost & Found

**Author's Note:**

> Dear readers,
> 
> For the purpose of this story, I ask you to not overthink the facts, and just assume that there is no such thing as Google Earth. 
> 
> If you enjoy Lost & Found then I hope you will take a moment to let me know what about it you liked in particular. If you do not like the story then I hope you will drop me some constructive criticism to aid my writing in the future.
> 
> And now, to the tale we go.... 
> 
> ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

**Crack!**

The sound of the thunder was close enough for Fleur to glance up from her notes, the sight of the sky outside briefly lighting up not really registering as her mind stayed on the task at hand. She looked back down at the sheets of paper before her, cerulean eyes narrowing in frustration when the stroke of genius she so desperately needed continued to evade her. The cacophony of sound the house was making all around her didn’t help, and an irritated Fleur blamed at least part of her writer’s block on the storm that had been raging for almost half a week now. After all, hadn’t she bought Shell Cottage for the peace and quiet the secluded property would afford her to focus on her work when her editor was breathing down her neck? How was she supposed to concentrate with all this racket? 

Suddenly, Fleur’s ears picked up on a sound that didn’t seem like it had come from within the wailing house. What was that? She peered, brow furrowed, into the darkness that extended around the tiny area illuminated by the light from her small kerosene lamp, focusing on her sense of hearing. There! She definitely wasn’t imagining it. 

Fleur rose from her seat at the table, leaving the lamp where it was and quietly making her way to the front door. Her dominant hand reached for the handle of combat knife she wore in a sheath around her waist whenever she was at Shell Cottage, even as the fingers of her left hand inched closer to the doorknob. 

Another soft knock against the door had Fleur on edge. Who in their right mind would be out in the middle of this insane weather? And how had they found Shell Cottage? Taking a deep breath, Fleur slowly pulled the heavy door open a smidgen as the sound of thunder filled the air again. Blue eyes met startled brown ones in the midst of a bright flash of light, before the newcomer collapsed to the ground, unconscious. 

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Hermione snuggled deeper under the covers, basking in the warmth that the thick duvet provided. It was such a difference from being chilled to the bone when she was-

 **Gasp!** The brunette opened her eyes and sat up with a start, frantic eyes taking in her surroundings even as she felt exhaustion hit her like a brick wall. The sound of hurried footsteps approaching led to Hermione quickly looking around the room for anything that she could use as a defensive weapon, but her quick search came up empty. Resigned to whatever it was that fate had in store for her, she turned wary eyes to the door. Seconds later, a stranger with the blondest hair Hermione had ever seen entered the room. 

“I zought I ‘eard somezing,” Fleur said with a small smile. “I am glad to see you are awake.”

“Wh-” Hermione paused, frowning at the sorry excuse for a croak that had sprung from her throat. 

The sound urged the other woman into action. In three long strides she was at the bedside table to Hermione’s right, lifting a glass of water that sat there and handing it to the brunette. “Sip. But slowly.”

Hermione briefly wondered if she would have accepted a drink from a stranger under any other circumstances, but saying no wasn’t a luxury she had at the moment. She reached for the tall drink, only to find that her arms felt like lead. Embarrassed, she let her hand fall back onto the bed had started to croak out an apology but was stopped by understanding eyes. “I ‘ad suspected zis might ‘appen,” Fleur said, reaching down to pick up a straw that had already been placed beside the glass on the bedside table, putting it into the glass and bringing it to Hermione’s lips. “Sip,” she repeated. 

The brunette did as she was instructed. She almost moaned when the first splash of water hit the back of her throat, and had to stop herself from pulling greedily on the straw. Her eyes focused on the slowly decreasing level in the glass, which the blonde gently pulled away from her when it almost half gone. “Zat ees enough for now, _mon amie_.”

Fleur placed the glass back down and retreated a few steps, giving Hermione some space. “My name ees Fleur. I zink you were about to ask me a question?” 

Hermione cleared her throat, but her voice sounded rough nonetheless when she spoke. “My name is Hermione-”

“Ah!” Fleur said, with a nod of her head. At Hermione’s questioning glance, she proceeded to explain herself. “I ‘ad suspected as much. You went missing a few days before I came ‘ere, and your disappearance was reported on ze news. Your ‘usband ‘as put out a reward for any information on your whereabouts.”

 _‘Thank goodness, Ron’s ok! But, oh God, he probably thinks I’m dead!’_ Hermione internally panicked. Her family and friends must be so worried! 

“How long have I been here? Have you let anyone know where I am?” she asked. 

Fleur shook her head. “ You arrived on my doorstep zree nights ago, and fell unconscious almost immediately. I ‘ave ‘ad no power for ze last five days, so my mobile phone _batterie_ ees dead. And I ‘ave no landline ‘ere. Or Internet, for zat matter” she finished, almost apologetically. 

Hermione licked her dry lips, her mind working. “Would you be able to take me to the nearest police station then? My husband is probably worried sick...”

She was met with another remorseful look. “ _Je suit desolé_ , ‘ermione, but ze storm ‘as ruined ze driveway that leads off ze property. Eet ees made of mud, and driving on eet now would, what would you say, bog down ze car. We weel ‘ave to wait for ze rains to pass and ze mud to dry, before I can take you to ze nearest village.” Fleur didn’t state out loud that the closest village was over fifty kilometers away from her isolated home. All the other news seemed to have distressed Hermione quite enough for one conversation. 

If Hermione had the strength, she would have screamed in frustration. Instead, all she felt was another wave of exhaustion hit her. The fatigue must have shown on her face because a sympathetic expression took over Fleur’s features. “Why don’t you rest for a little bit more, and I weel wake you up for some lunch soon?”

The brunette nodded, not having to be told twice. She barely registered the sound of the door closing behind Fleur as she closed her eyes and fell asleep the moment her head hit the pillow.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

 

Fleur gently blew on the contents of the spoon, cooling the liquid before bringing it to Hermione’s lips. “Come on, one more bite. We need to start restoring your strength, non?”

The brunette’s stomach was churning. She’d consumed less than a dozen small sips of soup, but she already felt like she couldn’t eat anymore. Still, she obliged her host by parting her lips and slurping up the broth-like liquid. Swallowing, she asked, “What is the date today?”

“Eet ees ze seventeenth of May,” Fleur answered, placing the almost-empty bowl back on the breakfast tray she had propped up on the bed. She appeared to think for a moment, before adding, “2017.”

Hermione couldn’t help but crack a small smile at that. “I gathered it was still 2017, Fleur. I doubt I could have survived in the wild for over a year.”

Fleur grinned back, glad to see that the woman before her could still smile after what she presumed was a terribly hard experience. 

“So I’ve been missing for... thirty-three days,” Hermione said, the thought sobering her up again. 

Fleur shrugged. “Technically you were meesing for _trente_ , zhirty, days.”

Hermione gave her another small smile, conceding the point with a nod of her head. Fleur cleared her throat, and seemed to hesitate before her curiosity won over, “‘ow deed you go meesing?”

The brunette took a deep breath. “My husband and I, we have this tradition of going somewhere new to camp every Easter. We’re avid hikers, you see. Ron, that’s my husband, had read about the Forbidden Forest in the Lonely Planet Magazine a few months ago, so we decided that that’s where we would go camping this year. We got there the morning of Good Friday and set up our tent, and then decided to go explore a little bit before heading back to the campsite for lunch. My phone battery was low from looking over some documents for work on the drive up, so I left it in the car to charge.”

She met Fleur’s gaze. She had the blonde’s undivided attention. “It was a beautiful day and, I remember, we just walked at a leisurely pace, admiring the flora and fauna of the forest. I think we might have walked deeper in the forest than we should have, but Ron was by my side so I didn’t really think too much about it at the time. We’d been walking for a couple of hours when I spotted some black flowers next to a slope, and I went closer to take a better look at them. I’d never seen the type before. They were stunning, almost as black as charcoal and-” 

Fleur’s face broke out into an amused smirk, prompting the brown-eyed woman to end her excited rambling with a sheepish look. “I digress. So, I was studying the flowers when I heard Ron scream from somewhere behind me. I turned around, worried that he was being mugged by someone hiding out in the forest or something, and I-”. Here Hermione stopped, her eyes squinting at the memory. “I saw him being chased by what, what looked like a giant _spider_. Which makes absolutely no sense since the spider was the size of a house.”

Hermione shook her head, as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing in her mind’s eye. “I stepped back, in disbelief. Shock, maybe, at what I was seeing, I don’t know. I was actually scared the creature, whatever it was, had killed Ron till you told me you’d heard him on the news. But yeah, I stepped onto the steep slope near the flowers, lost my footing and tumbled down. I remember closing my eyes as I rolled downwards and I must have hit my head on a rock or something because when I next opened my eyes my head was sore and the sun had set.”

Both women fell silent. The howling wind outside the window provided the only sound in the room for a few moments as Fleur took it all in. “Wow. Where in ze Forbidden Forest deed you say your campsite was?”

“In the Hogwarts National Park section,” Hermione replied.

Fleur’s eyes went wide. “ _Mon dieu!_! Zat is almost 950 kilometers away from ‘ere! Eef you were walking een a straight line!”

“Well, I had a lot of time on my hands...” Hermione said, almost without thinking. Fleur turned to her, still stunned at what she had just learned. The two women locked gazes for a beat, before Fleur let out a loud laugh. 

“‘You ‘ad a lot of time on your ‘ands!” the blonde repeated, before laughing again. “ _Vous êtes une comedienne_ , ‘ermione.” 

Hermione joined in the laughter. When they had sobered down from giggling at something that probably wouldn’t even be half as funny if taken out of context, Fleur asked, “So what deed you do next?”

“Well, I waited where I was that night, and all of the next day. That was the most obvious thing to do,” the brunette said, earning a nod of understanding from the blonde. “On the third day, I decided that I needed to move and try and make my way back to civilization. But more importantly, I needed to find water. So I began moving and, luckily, that evening I chanced upon a little brook that I could drink from.”

“Why didn’t you follow ze brook to ze source?” Fleur asked.

“I tried to, but it disappeared into the ground,” Hermione replied. “So I stayed by the brook for the night and then started walking again. And then I lost track of days. Some days I could have sworn I was just walking in circles. At some points I was convinced that I was going to die from thirst, but just when I thought that the end was near, it would rain and I was able to stay mildly hydrated.”

Fleur asked the next logical question. “What about food?”

“I was lucky – _so lucky_ – to find the mother ship of mushrooms near that first brook, and filled my pockets with as many as I could carry on me before leaving. I rationed them out, and they lasted me about six days,” Hermione said. “Then I stumbled upon some bushes of honeysuckle berries about, I think, ten days before I found my way to your house? And, well, I also ate whatever creepy crawlies I could get my hands on.”

“Mmm, zey are protein,” Fleur pointed out, all matter-of-fact. 

“That’s what I told myself,” Hermione agreed. “I gagged the first few times I ate them, but I forced myself to keep them down. I don’t know how, or why, Gilderoy Lockhart pretends they don’t taste half-bad on his TV show.”

“Zat man is a fake,” Fleur said, distaste written all over her features. “I zhink ‘e actually eats chocolate frogs _et_ jelly slugs.”

“That makes sense,” Hermione said, bobbing her head up and down. Without warning, a yawn broke forth from her lips.

Fleur stood. “I ‘ave probably tired you out with all my questions. Sleep now.” She turned to leave, but looked over her shoulder as she walked away. “Call out if you need anyzhing. I will be in the next room. Oh, and eef you are wondering, ze bathroom is at ze end of ze ‘all, to your right.”

Hermione nodded gratefully and was rewarded with a smile before Fleur exited the room, closing the door with a soft click.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

 

Fleur felt a sense of déjà vu as she stared down at her notes. She hadn’t made any progress on her manuscript since Hermione had shown up at her doorstep in the most unceremonious of fashions. If anything, the blonde was even more distracted by her houseguest, who was, quite frankly, lucky to be alive after having spent so much time lost in the Forbidden Forest of all places. While the blonde had serious doubts about whether the creature that Hermione had seen chasing after her husband was in fact a giant spider, Fleur knew that the woodland was home to a number of dangerous creatures that could kill you in a heartbeat. It was one of the things that had almost stopped her from purchasing Shell Cottage, which bordered a part of the forest. Then Fleur’s realtor had pointed out that the proximity to the Forbidden Forest meant that she was unlikely to have unwanted visitors, and that had changed her mind. Now Fleur let out a quiet laugh at the irony of it all.

“A penny for your thoughts?”

Fleur jumped in her seat. Judging by the smile on Hermione’s face, that was exactly the reaction she had been hoping for. 

“ _Bonjour_ , ‘ermione,” Fleur smiled. “I am ‘appy to see you up and about.”

“Good morning to you too, Fleur. I am feeling stronger this morning,” Hermione said, walking towards the table Fleur was sitting at. “Sorry I slept through the night though.”

Fleur waved the apology away. “I expect you to need much more sleep in ze days to come.” She rose from her seat, closing her notebook as she did. “May I offer you a cup of tea, or coffee, per’aps?”

“Oh my God, tea! Yes, please. It was one of the things I missed most when I was lost,” Hermione said. “Yes, I know – something is _clearly_ wrong with my sense of priorities,” she smiled, watching Fleur walk towards the open kitchen. “Does that mean the power is back?”

The blonde shook her head. “Unfortunately, no. But ze ‘ot water system in zis house is gas. And I ‘ave a trangia set.”

“So do we!” Hermione exclaimed. “Ron and I, I mean. They’re amazing, aren’t they?”

“ _Oui_ ,” Fleur agreed. “I can also warm up a can of baked beans for you to eat, if you’d like?” 

“That sounds lovely, Fleur,” Hermione said, and paused before adding, “and I just want to say, thank you so much for, for rescuing me.”

Fleur laughed, and Hermione couldn’t help but think that it was a wonderful sound. “I deed no such zhing, ‘ermione. I was just in ze right place at ze right time.”

“Well then, thank you for taking this stranger in and nursing her back to health,” Hermione said, almost stubbornly. 

The blonde rolled her eyes, the smile still on her lips. “And people say we writers are _dramatique_. Now, ‘ow do you take your tea?”

“With a small dash of milk, please,” Hermione replied, pulling out a chair for herself and practically collapsing onto it. She felt like she had spent all her energy reserves on the short walk from the bedroom to the table but, fortunately, her mind still seemed to be alert. “You’re a writer?”

“ _Oui_ ,” Fleur replied simply, her eyes trained on the can of baked beans that she was opening. 

“Might I have read any of your works? Unless you’re a screenwriter, in which case, would I have seen any of your films?” Hermione asked, her curiosity piqued. 

Fleur dropped the can opener onto the kitchen countertop, the small gadget making a dull thud when it hit the marble. She turned her eyes to her guest as she emptied the contents of the can into an aluminum saucepan. “Do you ‘ave any children?”

Hermione was a little thrown by the change of subject, but she shook her head anyway. “Well zen, you probably would not ‘ave come across any of my works. I write stories for children. Zat ees why I am ‘ere right now, actually. I come ‘ere to write undisturbed, with a clear ‘ead.”

That made sense to Hermione. Without thinking, she blurted the next thought in her head. “I wouldn’t have picked you for a writer.”

Fleur arched a single eyebrow, the question evident in that glance. Hermione hurried to explain herself. “I only mean that I assumed – incorrectly, obviously – that you were a model or, or an actress. And that you were here, in this out-of-the-way location to get some time away from the prying lens of the French paparazzi.”

Hermione could feel herself turning red at her explanation, but luckily the blonde seemed more amused than anything. “ You ‘ave quite ze imagination, _mon amie_.” She approached Hermione and set down a mug of tea in front of her before reclaiming her own chair. “But why would you suspect zat I am an _actrice_? Or model?”

“You have seen yourself, right?” Hermione retorted. She watched, silently pleased with herself, when Fleur’s cheeks tinted pink at the obvious compliment. 

The brunette reached for the mug and brought it to her lips, taking a tentative sip and letting out a happy moan at the taste. Her eyes drifted to the grey sky visible past the window. Fleur followed her gaze. “The rain ‘as definitely eased up. I walked out to check ze driveway zis morning, and eet ees still _tres_ mucky. But I ‘ave ‘opes zat eet weel dry up quickly when ze sun comes out.”

Hermione realized, for the first time since she’d arrived at Shell Cottage, that the house wasn’t rattling and moaning anymore. It was strange – she almost missed all the noise and clatter. She marveled at the realization, wondering when her psyche had begun to associate all the racket with safety. 

Her gaze found its way back to Fleur, whose own stare was still fixed on the world beyond the window. Hermione studied the blonde’s profile, eyes raking over the delicate features that she would still bet would have earned their owner a direct pathway into showbiz. 

Fleur must have sensed her stare, because she turned around and smiled at the other woman, before her eyes drifted onwards, to the kitchen. “Ze baked beans smell ready.”

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

 

Scratch. Scribble. Scratch, scratch. Scribble, scribble. _'This isn't going anywhere,'_ Fleur thought. If she were a character from one of her books then she would quite literally be pulling at her hair in frustration right about now. Luckily for her long blonde tresses, she wasn’t quite so theatrical in real life. 

But the problem at hand remained the same – she was actually in danger of having absolutely nothing to give her editor when they met next month, which would be a breach of the contract she had signed with her publisher. If Fleur showed up empty-handed then chances were she would have to return at least part of the up front commission she had been paid for the new book. Returning the money wouldn’t leave Fleur in financial dire straits - not by a long way. But it would be a blow to her pride; to her belief in her own ability to pump out quality stories on schedule. Still, when it came down to it, Fleur would much rather pay back the money than hand in a manuscript whose merits she wasn’t completely convinced off. 

She was broken from her inner contemplations by a movement on the couch. She lifted her eyes to look at the moving lump that was half-covered by a quilt Fleur’s grandmere had stitched by hand. A fond smile played on her lips as she attempted to peek past the shock of brown curls that obscured Hermione’s features from view. 

A horse voice broke the silence. “God, I smell.”

A laugh bubbled out from Fleur. Hermione stilled, and blue-eyes watched as she moved a handful of hair from her face to peer back her way. “Did I just say that out loud?”

Fleur nodded, eyes twinkling with amusement. Her houseguest was rather adorable. “Would you like a bath and maybe some fresh clothes?”

Hermione sat up further, pushing more hair off her face as she did. “Yes please, that would be lovely.” She looked down at her arms, and seemed to redden even before she spoke. “I mean, I realized that you must have washed me... or something... when I got here because I’m wearing different clothes, but-”

Fleur felt the need to explain herself. “You were soaking wet when you got here. I didn’t want you to get sick from ze cold. Like I said, I ‘ad already guessed zat you were ze woman who ‘ad gone missing, and I was not sure ‘ow long you ‘ad been in zhose clothes for. Or eef you ‘ad bugs or leeches on you. Zat is why I decided to change you. _Je suit desolé_ , but you were unconscious so I could not actually ask your perm-”

“No! Fleur! You were right! I would have done the same thing if roles were reversed,” Hermione said in a rush, putting Fleur out of her misery. “Really, thank you.”

“I did not change your, uh, underclothes,” Fleur said, turning her gaze from Hermione’s face as she felt her own face heat up. “I did not zhink eet would be right of me to do so. I simply changed you out of ze track pants and t-shirt you ‘ad been wearing, and wiped you down wiz a warm wet cloth. To check if you ‘ad any bites or cuts zat needed attending. You were een surprisingly good condition for someone zat ‘ad been in ze situation you ‘ad been een,” she finished, trying to lighten the mood. “Apart from all ze weight loss, obviously.”

“I made sure to wash every time I chanced upon a body of water,” Hermione said. “And again- I mean, I know I seem to say this a lot, but thank you so much, for all your care and concern.”

Fleur smiled at the sincerity in Hermione’s voice. “ _De rien_ , ‘ermione.” She looked down at her notebook, mentally shaking her head at the page full of scratched out scribbles, and closed it before getting on her feet. “I washed ze clothes you ‘ad been wearing, and zey should ‘ave dried by now, if you would like to wear zem after your wash? Or I could offer you anozer pair of pajamas?” 

“Pajamas, please? I think I’m going to burn the clothes I was wearing,” Hermione said, only half-jokingly. She made to get up but was stopped by a hand on her shoulder. 

“Why don’t you wait ‘ere while I run ze bath for you? I weel let you know when eet ees ready,” Fleur said, kindly. She received a nod in return and squeezed a shoulder that still felt much too bony before setting off for the bathroom.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

The effort of scrubbing herself clean sapped the last of Hermione’s energy, and she spent most of the next twenty-four hours sleeping. At times she would drift in-and-out of sleep, and she woke up at some point the next day to the memory of being carried to what she now internally referred to as ‘her room’. The brunette lay there, blinking up at the ceiling, replaying what she could remember of Fleur’s deceptively strong arms cradling her on the short walk from the couch, where she had fallen asleep, to the bedroom. Another memory came to her; Fleur was asking whether she would be able to walk to the bedroom, where she could rest more comfortably. She must have answered in the negative for Fleur to have lifted her up, almost bridal-style, and taken her to the queen-sized bed. 

Hermione’s brow furrowed. She had a sudden, vivid recollection of wanting Fleur to _kiss_ her as she drifted to sleep. Not a kiss-me-till-I’m-weak-in-my-knees kiss, but a caress on the forehead from which she could draw comfort. 

Now wide-awake, Hermione sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, resting her toes on the wooden floor. She was so lost in her sudden confusion that she almost didn’t notice the sky was no longer a solid grey, and there were bits of blue starting to peak out from between the rain clouds. Her gaze drifted down from the sky to the landscape out in front of her. 

The Forbidden Forest sat there, looming thick and dark in the distance. Hermione remembered what is was like to be at the other end of this distance; of thinking she was going mad when she thought she spotted a tiny patch of yellow light across the vast expanse of land. She had walked, through swaying trees and sheets of rain that applied a natural filter to the tiny dot of the tungsten colour she still wasn’t convinced was actually there. Suddenly, the forest ended and for the first time in who knows how long Hermione was no longer surrounded by thick shrubbery. And the light seemed so much brighter.

She made her way towards it, tripping over fallen branches, losing her balance when her feet sank deep into the mud. But she kept going - walking, crawling – using her last stores of energy till an outline of a small house became visible around the hallowed light. Hermione might have cried if she could have; mild dehydration meant her body wasn’t quite willing to share any essential fluids with her tear ducts. 

Finally, Hermione made it to the front door and attempted to knock on it. She ended up actually falling against the door more than anything else, producing a dull thud. Righting herself, she willed her right hand into a loose fist, and rapped her knuckles against the solid piece of wood. 

Moments later she watched, almost in disbelief, when the door was slowly pulled open, and she was met by the sight of the most beautiful woman she had ever seen staring back at her in disbelief. Hermione, who openly questioned her fellow man’s blind belief in a God no one had ever seen, was struck by the thought that she was looking at an actual Goddess before darkness had taken over. 

And now, days later, she was more convinced than ever that Fleur was, indeed, a heavenly creature. The Frenchwoman had taken her in, and was nursing her back to health with the limited reserves available in her home. Hermione knew that ideally she needed to be hospitalized and pumped with vital fluids to improve at the rate her body really needed, but Fleur was doing her best with what she had on hand. The blonde had mentioned that she had driven into the nearest village to purchase provisions with which to restock her pantry here at the cottage when word of the approaching rain had spread, and luckily she had the foresight to buy enough canned food to feed an army for the next month. Still, Hermione was beyond grateful for her hospitality, care and kindness towards a complete stranger. _‘And yes, that would obviously explain why I would seek comfort from her, whether in the form of a platonic kiss or anything else,'_ the brunette thought, deciding it was best not to dwell on the matter any further. 

Suddenly a wheelbarrow came into view on the tiny concrete path that surrounded the cottage, and then Hermione saw Fleur pushing the three-wheeler along the pavement. The blonde stopped and stepped off the paved path to pick up some small branches that were lying around, remnants of the storm. Hermione could see her work boots sink into the mud as she moved, collecting the debris and tossing it onto the small pile already in the wheelbarrow. When she had collected all the small branches in the vicinity, Fleur grabbed the handles and made to move forward again, tossing her long braid back over her shoulders as she walked. 

Hermione didn’t think much about the smile she could feel on her face as she watched the woman disappear from view.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

 

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Fleur said, pouring the contents of some soup cans into an aluminum saucepan, “but what ees eet you do when you are not busy being lost in ze woods?” She placed the pan on the spirit burner and made her way to the couch, sitting across Hermione.

“Oh, hardy har har,” Hermione deadpanned, although she looked amused. “I actually work for the United Nations.”

“Oh, really?” Fleur said, intrigued. “In which department, if I may ask?”

Hermione bookmarked the page of Hogwarts: The Complete Guide to One of the World’s Most Famous National Parks before setting the closed book down on the small coffee table before her. “For the Entity for Gender Equality and the Empowerment of Women division.”

“Wow,” Fleur said, and then her features took on a mischievous look. “I would not ‘ave picked zat. I zhot you were a model, or an _actrice_ , and zat you ‘ad disappeared into ze woods to escape ze paparazzi.”

The blonde felt ridiculously pleased with herself when Hermione let out an amused snort. “Touché, Fleur,” she laughed. 

“ _Et_ , your ‘usband? What does ‘e do?” Fleur asked. Hermione seemed to sober down at the mention of him, and Fleur reached out to rest a comforting hand on the brunette’s skinny arm. “Don’t worry, ‘ermione. I know you zhink ‘e is worried, but eet weel all be ok when he realizes zat you are alive and safe.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said quietly. Fleur retracted her hand, resting it in her own lap again. “Ron runs a hobby store with his older brother.”

“Zat sounds like fun,” the blonde pointed out.

“Yeah, he seems to enjoy it,” Hermione said, smiling fondly. “He says it keeps the child in him alive.” 

They fell into an amiable silence for a moment, before the brunette broke it again. “What about you? Are you married? Seeing anybody?”

Fleur shook her head. “Non, I am not married, nor am I seeing anybody.” Hermione looked genuinely shocked at her admission, so Fleur added, “My last relationship ended over two years ago. My partner cheated on me.” It had taken a while for Fleur to say those words out loud without bitterness lacing her tone, but eventually the hurt had gone away.

“Well, your ex-partner sounds like an idiot,” Hermione said firmly.

“Yes, she was an idiot. But, to be ‘onest, we were not right for each ozzer,” Fleur admitted. 

“Why not?” Hermione asked. “I mean, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to...”

Fleur shrugged. “We were togezzer for over a year, but I never felt like I could not live wizout ‘er. I loved ‘er, yes, but eet never felt like an all-consuming love. She was not, ‘ow would you say it, ze missing piece to me. In ‘indsight, I am glad she ended zings because I am not sure I would ‘ave ‘ad ze courage to do so myself.”

They fell into another lull, but this one seemed heavier than the last. Fleur could tell that something was playing on Hermione’s mind. Was she uncomfortable at her admission that she liked women? 

Hermione’s fingers toyed with the quilt in her lap. She kept her gaze averted from Fleur when she began to speak again. “Ron cheated on me too.”

Fleur was hit with a wave of resentment towards a man she had never met. She didn’t have time to contemplate the origin of the protective instinct that had sprung in her chest for the brunette when Hermione continued, “Not physically, but emotionally. With a lady who comes in – well, used to come in – regularly to his hobby store. He, he told me that there was a lot of flirting and innuendo, and they would speak on the phone and meet for coffee, but that was the extent of it. They didn’t actually do anything.”

The Frenchwoman swallowed her rage. It sounded like Hermione wanted to, no, needed to, talk about this, and Fleur was not going to interrupt her. “He told me about it himself, so it’s not like I discovered him in the act or something equally horrible. He said he was just feeling neglected since I had been traveling so much for work to Africa, and he, well, he made a mistake. Which he was man enough to admit to.”

Fleur had to bite back a humourless laugh. “That’s why we decided to go camping alone this year. Usually we go with our best friend Harry, and his wife Ginny, who also happens to be Ron’s younger sister. We’ve all been friends from our school days. But yeah, we thought the time away together, alone, would be good for us.”

“Does anybody else knew about Ron’s... indiscretion?” Fleur questioned.

She was met with a shake of the head. “Ron begged me not to tell anyone, especially our close friends and family. He really is very ashamed at what he has done.”

“I see. How long ‘ave you two been married?,” Fleur asked.

“Eight years. And we dated for three years before that,” Hermione answered. 

“And do you forgive ‘im?” Fleur questioned. 

The room went quiet. “I think so?” Fleur waited again, watching as Hermione gathered her thoughts. “I don’t know,” she added, almost in a whisper. “I mean, it hurt that he would do that. But I don’t know if it hurt as much as it is supposed to.” Hermione looked up, questioning eyes searching blue ones that were filled with understanding.

“For what eet ees worth, I zink your ‘usband ees un idiot to have cheated on you, too.” Fleur rose to dish out the soup, which would be hot by now. She could feel Hermione’s gaze warming her back. 

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

 

Over the next few days, Hermione’s strength started to build as blue skies slowly won their battle against the grey clouds. Eventually the sun began to make appearances that got longer and longer, and each day Fleur would check the driveway to see if it could be driven on yet. “Soon,” she would say, looking up from her spot crouched down in the mud to where Hermione was standing. 

The two women had developed a sort of routine. Hermione, sleeping almost normal amounts now, would read most of the day away while Fleur sat at the table, continuing her thus far fruitless attempts at coming up with an idea for a new book. The pair walked around the cottage in the evenings; on one such walk, the blonde discovered that a cable leading to her house had snapped clean in half, which would explain why she still did not have any electricity in the cottage. 

Hermione and Fleur would take turns making hot beverages and readying their meals. Fleur tried to protest, saying Hermione was her guest, but relented when pleading brown eyes made the case for wanting to feel useful. Evenings were spent playing cards and the few board games Fleur had in the house. She had even found a jigsaw puzzle that Hermione had started to piece together on the small coffee table in front of the couch. 

Unbeknownst to one another, Fleur and Hermione watched each other in quiet moments. The blonde was aware that she had grown feelings for the brunette. In the beginning she thought it was the Florence Nightingale Effect, where as the caregiver she had developed romantic feelings for her patient, but her recent interactions with Hermione had left her in no doubt that she would have been attracted to the petite brunette no matter where and how their paths might have crossed. The blonde had had some of the best discussions of her life with Hermione, talking about everything from their views on unidentified flying objects to whether teleportation was actually scientifically possible, and debating whether or not The Weird Sisters deserved to be voted into the Rock ’N’ Roll Hall of Fame, and she realized that she found the Englishwoman’s intelligence and spirit to be insanely attractive. 

Hermione, on the other hand, was sticking to her plan of not overthinking things. It was easier not to question why she blushed when Fleur complimented her intellect; why her fingers tingled when they brushed against the blonde’s nimble digits whenever she passed her a mug of coffee; why she, discreetly, took in a deep lungful of air whenever Fleur walked past, trying to hold onto the other woman’s scent as long as she could; why she found herself holding onto every word her host uttered, thinking about how lovely her French accent sounded. And she was definitely not going to even try to understand why her body had reacted the way it did when Fleur had stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in nothing but a white towel, her endless legs on display before she had smiled shyly and stepped past Hermione on her way to her bedroom. 

Yes, sometimes it was best to just leave things be.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

 

Hermione couldn’t understand why she felt so sad. Shouldn’t she be happier at the prospect of seeing her husband and the rest of their extended family soon? Unseeing eyes lingered on the portrait of Rowena Ravenclaw that hung in the living room as the brunette realized she didn’t want to leave. She had been happier than she could remember being for a long time during these last few days here at the cottage with Fleur, and she wasn’t ready to leave the peaceful, happy bubble she and the Frenchwoman had been ensconced in. 

She actually didn’t feel like she ever would be.

She heard Fleur’s footsteps behind her, and noted the blonde come to a stop by her side in her peripheral vision. There was that feeling of warmth again. 

“This is a remarkably good reproduction,” Hermione said, studying the deft brushstrokes of the oil painting. “I doubt anyone but a specialist would be able to tell it apart from Salazar Slytherin’s original piece.”

Fleur let out a laugh. “I doubt anyone could even do zat, ‘ermione.”

Wide brown eyes turned to look at her in wonder. “You mean-?”

“Yes, zat’s ze original work,” Fleur nodded. “Pretty _incroyable_ , non?” 

Hermione nodded, turning her neck to stare at the artwork with newfound appreciation. Fleur watched her for a few moments, then spoke. “Well, we are ready to leave whenever you are.”

The brunette stared up at the face that history regarded as belonging to the most intelligent woman to have ever walked the face of this earth. She wondered if Rowena Ravenclaw would have been able to help Hermione make sense of her muddled mindset if she had been around right now. Sighing internally, she turned to Fleur. “Let’s go.”

The pair made their way out of the house, and climbed into the Range Rover that Fleur had driven out of the garage earlier that morning. The Frenchwoman started the engine, and they began their journey to the nearest village of Tinworth. Hermione watched the cottage recede in the rearview mirror to her left, until it was no bigger than a dot in the distance. 

She turned her body to face Fleur. “Was it always called Shell Cottage? Or is that just a name you refer to it as?”

Blue eyes stayed fixed on the bumpy road. “Eet ees what I call eet. When I was young my _soeur_ and I always talked about living by the sea togezzer een a house we would name Shell Cottage. Ze name ees really more of an inside joke zan anyzing else,” she smiled.

“Does Gaby ever come here?” Hermione asked.

“Oui, she ‘as ‘er own set of keys to ze ‘ouse. Under ze provision zat she does not come ‘ere when I am working,” Fleur replied as she took a left turn. 

The pair continued to make small talk as the journey would on, till Hermione began to feel her eyes droop closed from the effects of the gentle rocking of the car. Fleur leaned forward to press a button on the radio, and the soft sounds of French jazz music filled the car. “Why don’t you rest? I weel wake you when we get to ze village.” 

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

 

Hermione felt a soft hand on her back, gently bringing her back to wakefulness. She slowly opened her eyes, lifting her head from where it rested on her elbow that was propped on the table. Her back made a popping sound as she sat upright, sore from being stuck in the bent over position for who knows how long. 

“Hey, sleepyhead. I think the bed might be more comfortable.”

Hermione stared up into Ron’s kind face. “Wanna come up to bed?” he asked. 

The brunette nodded. Turning to her laptop, she closed the top before staggering to her feet. Ron made to reach for her, but she held up a hand. “It’s ok. I’m alright.” 

She ignored the upset look she could see written all over his features. She knew she had hurt him by not letting him fawn over her since she had returned but she just didn’t want to be smothered by his attention. Especially since she was actually pretty alright by the time Fleur had gotten her back to proper civilization. 

Fleur. Where was she?

Hermione climbed into bed but didn’t lie down, choosing instead to sit up, resting against the pillows behind her back.

“So, Fleur really didn’t give you a phone number or any other contact details before she left?”

Ron rolled onto his back to face her. “I’ve already told you, Hermy,” (' _God, I hate that nickname_ ’, Hermione thought, for what felt like the millionth time), “she pointed me to the examination room you were in, and when we came out together she was gone. I saw her for, like, five seconds. I couldn’t even thank her for saving my wife’s life!”

Hermione thought back to that day. Fleur had woken her up when they were outside the small police station, and things had turned into a bit of a circus when the officers on duty realized who Hermione was. Fleur sat quietly in the background after Hermione confirmed that no, she hadn’t been kidnapped, and no, her husband had not tried to kill her while out on the hike, offering the brunette supportive smiles as she answered the cops’ questions. 

After what felt like an eternity the police took Hermione to the local hospital for a checkup, insisting that she travel with them instead of in Fleur’s car. “I will follow you to ze ‘ospital,” the blonde had said, squeezing Hermione’s hand before making her way to her Range Rover. 

And that was the last Hermione had seen of her. The brunette had been rushed into an examination room for a thorough checkup, where the doctor had marveled at the condition she was in after going so long without proper food, water or rest. It was there that Ron had found a completely frustrated Hermione who just wanted to get out of the nauseatingly sterile examination room. 

Fleur seemed to have disappeared without a trace. The policemen had no idea what her last name was, or where she lived. For that matter, Hermione realized that she had never bothered to ask the blonde those questions either. Which, looking back, really was ridiculous. The cops weren’t exactly falling over themselves to help Hermione find her saviour since she wasn’t really a criminal or anything. 

The brunette had returned home, and had had an endless stream of visitors ever since. Family, friends, colleagues, they all poured in one after the other, bearing gifts of flowers, chocolate and wine. Everyone told her how relieved they were that she was alright, how worried they had been for her. Ron had cried when he first saw her, telling her how he was afraid that he had lost her, and how he was going to be the best husband he could. And he had delivered on that, being affectionate and attentive, treating his wife like she was the most precious thing in the world. And through all this all Hermione could think about was how much she missed Fleur. 

So Hermione had turned to the only avenue that was really open to her – the Internet. She had tried every prompt she could think of – Children’s book author Fleur; Shell Cottage near Tinworth; Blonde French children’s author Fleur; Gorgeous Frenchwoman Fleur; Beautiful author Fleur; Gaby Sister Fleur. Search after search had come up empty. 

Hermione had even searched for the sales history of Salazar Slytherin’s painting of Rowena Ravenclaw, and had found the contact details of the Parisian auction house Ollivanders that had handled the sale of the artwork in 2014. She had let out a primal scream when she hung up the phone after being politely informed that the auction house was not authorized to disclose details of anonymous buyers. 

The brunette was jolted back to the present when she felt Ron slip his hand into hers. She pulled her own hand back, as if burned, and could picture the wounded expression she would see on Ron’s face even before she looked at him. 

“Ron, we need to talk.”

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

 

A year passed since Hermione returned to her life in London, and things had returned to normalcy. Work was busy, but satisfying, and things with Ronald had also improved after he’d asked for some time to himself to deal with the split. It was funny, she and her now ex-husband realized that they had always been better as friends, and in all honesty their relationship was the best it had been in years. 

Fleur was never far from her mind. The Englishwoman’s heart raced every time she caught a glimpse of pale blonde hair, and each time she was disappointed when she was met by the questioning stare of a stranger. Hermione’s therapist had gently suggested that maybe what the brunette was feeling was transference, and pointed out that people who fell for their caregivers often confused their feelings of gratitude with attraction. The shrink pointed out that Hermione’s troubles with her husband might have caused her to project romantic feelings onto someone who, quite literally, had shielded and saved her. 

Hermione had heard her out, and even mulled over her words. But in the end, the ache she felt every time she thought about Fleur left her without a shred of doubt that there was more to her feelings than that. She missed being around the blonde. She wanted to hear that melodic laugh that warmed her insides again, and have discussions about everything and nothing. She wanted to smell that unique whiff of lavender that followed the Frenchwoman everywhere she went. She wanted to hear her pronounce her name without the sound of the ‘h’ again. And if, by some miraculous stroke of luck, Fleur reciprocated her interest then she wanted to wine and dine her; to make her fall for Hermione just as hard as the brunette had unwittingly fallen for her. 

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

 

“I was thinking I’d buy the baby a couple of books. I mean, they already have two kids, so I doubt the new baby Potter is going to be short on clothes and toys for the foreseeable future, regardless of whether it’s a boy or a girl,” Hermione said as she and Luna stopped outside Flourish and Blotts. 

“Mmm, that’s a good idea,” her old friend agreed. “I was going to buy him a mobile dream catcher from Wiseacre’s down the street. See you back here, after?”

“Sure. If I’m not outside, I’ll be in the children’s section,” Hermione said. She stopped, calling out to Luna’s turned back, “And make sure it’s a gender-neutral colour! We don’t know for sure that it’s going to be a boy.”

“Oh, it’s certainly going to be a boy,” Luna called back airily. “And he’s going to be a _handful_.”

Hermione entered the bookstore, still shaking her head with amusement at the certainty in Luna’s tone. Harry and Ginny had always chosen not to find out the sex of their children before they were born, and this time was no different. And as uncanny as Luna’s ability to accurately predict things might be, she was sticking to a gender-neutral present to pass on to Ginny at the baby shower that afternoon. 

A quarter of an hour later Hermione was still browsing through the titles, occasionally pulling out a book to read the story synopsis on the back and then placing the book back on the shelf. At this point Hermione was completely unimpressed by the lack of originality on offer. The baby would probably not care about the story quality, but there was no way its Aunt Hermione was going to give its mother and father just another run-of-the-mill storybook about a bear that lost its shoe to read to it at night.

“Still nothing?” Luna asked, coming to a stop beside Hermione. She was carrying a brown paper bag with handles, inside of which lay a brightly wrapped present. 

“No, sorry. I know we need to get going soon, but I haven’t had anything really jump out at me yet,” Hermione apologized. “Look, if I don’t find anything in the next five minutes then I’ll just pop into Mammal Menagerie next door and buy the baby a puppy or something. That way it will have a companion to grow up with,” she grinned.

“Ginny will kill you. With her bare hands,” Luna laughed, walking a few paces away and staring up at a bookshelf. She pulled out a book and turned to Hermione. “What about this one? Look, the girl on the cover even looks like you. Well, like you did before you chopped your hair off.”

The brunette looked up from where she was standing studying the blurb on the back of another book, her half-interested gaze landing on the book, which was titled ‘Lost & Found’, that Luna had pulled down from the ‘New Releases’ shelf. Her friend was right; the illustrated character on the front of the book did have Hermione’s unruly curls, tanned complexion and brown eyes. 

“What’s it about?” Hermione asked, replacing the book she was holding and walking over to Luna.

Luna began to read. “‘Little Veela gets lost deep in the woods on a camping trip with her family. Frightened and alone, she must find the courage within her to battle giant spiders, creepy crawlies and scary storms on her quest to make it back to camp.’ Hmm, that might be a little dark for a newborn-” She looked up and paused. Hermione looked like she had just seen a ghost. 

“Hermione? What’s the matter?” Luna asked, worried. 

“What’s the name of the author of that book?” the brunette asked. Her heart was racing. _‘This can’t be a coincidence...’_

Luna shot her a confused look, but turned the book back around in her hands. “Gabrielle Delacour.” 

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

 

Fleur sat in the Manager’s Office at Obscurus Books in Diagon Alley. She was there to do a meet and greet with her target audience - preteens - as part of the promotional activities for her new book. A store attendant had led her to the Manager’s Office when she arrived at the bookstore, and asked her to wait till someone came to fetch her for the actual event.

A copy of Lost & Found sat in the blonde’s lap, and her eyes traced over the features of the character on its cover. Fleur’s longtime collaborator Viktor had, as always, done a great job bringing the illustrations the writer saw in her mind’s eye to life. Fleur had actually invited him to Shell Cottage to show him what she wanted the forest to look like, and he had stayed back for a few days, drawing the honeysuckle berries, mushrooms and giant spiders by hand till they had her seal of approval. And he had been patient, even more so than usual, when she insisted that he didn’t have the right shade of brown for Veela’s eye colour, or that her hair needed to be more unruly. 

It might have been easier just to show him one of the pictures of Hermione that Fleur had found on the Internet, but she wasn’t quite willing to part with her secret.

Fleur had kept a track of Hermione for the last year. She had been surprised by the relatively small amount of fuss the press made over her return from the wilderness, and in hindsight she realized it was probably because Hermione herself hadn’t allowed it to become a national event. She gave absolutely no interviews on returning to her home in London, and the only official word from the family came in the form of a short statement Ronald Weasley read out to the press the day after she had last seen Hermione in person. 

Since then Fleur had taken to following Hermione’s life on the web. Or at least as much of it as she could. She checked her official profile on the United Nations page, and her LinkedIn profile from time to time. The brunette also had a Facebook page with strong security settings, so all the Frenchwoman had been able to see on there had been an old cover photo of Hermione dressed as a witch at what Fleur assumed was a costume party, surrounded by Ron and a few others, and a profile picture of the UN logo. Sometimes Fleur would consider adding Hermione as a friend because, God, she missed her, but then good sense would prevail and she would drop the idea. Fleur knew her limitations, and realized that trying to be friends with a happily married Hermione would only cause her heartache. 

“Ms. Delacour?” a polite voice asked from the open doorway. Fleur looked up. “If you could please follow me? We’re ready for you.”

The meet-and-greet was the same as always. Fleur read a chapter from the book, and then took questions from the eager audience with the average age of eight. Usually the questions were always the same – “What made you want to be a writer?”; “How come you write in English even though you’re French?”; “What’s your favourite candy?”

And then there was the one that was different every time she released a new book – “What inspired you to write this story?” 

Fleur took a deep breath, making eye contact with the tiny Indian-looking girl who had asked the question. “Well, I ‘ave a friend who got lost on a camping trip once, and she told me about ‘ow brave she ‘ad to be to make eet back ‘ome. I was inspired by ‘er story to write zis book.”

“Did your friend really have to battle spiders?” a little boy asked. 

“Yes,” Fleur said, her expression serious. “Giant spiders. And she ate mushrooms and ‘oneysuckle berries, just like little Veela does een my book.” She paused. “My friend, she was, she ees, very brave. And I ‘ope zat zis book will teach all ze readers to ‘ave courage in ze face of adversity. Zat is why I ‘ave dedicated eet to anyone who needs a reminder of ‘ow brave zay truly are.”

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

 

Blue eyes stared up at the dark grey skies, before Fleur opened up her umbrella and prepared to step out from under the bookstores large sunshade into the drizzle, under the shelter of the bright red canopy. She had started to turn to the right when she was stopped by a voice that came from the left. 

“It seems that we are only destined to meet in the rain.”

Heart thundering in her chest, Fleur slowly turned to look at the owner of the voice she had heard in her dreams for too long now. She was met by bright brown eyes that shone with determination, Hermione’s expression softened by pink lips that were slightly upturned at the edges.

The two women stared at one another for a second before Fleur took one big step towards the petite brunette and wrapped her in a hug, the red umbrella tossed to the ground. Hermione returned the embrace with vigour and Fleur noted, with great pleasure, that her body no longer felt frail and weak. 

She pulled back, giving Hermione back her personal space, and smiled down at the other woman, who was definitely not too thin anymore. “‘ermione!” Her voice, chockfull with emotion, sounded foreign to her own ears. “What a surprise. You look wonderful! And your ‘air! It looks _magnifique_!”

Hermione bowed her head, seemingly bashful at Fleur’s flattery. “Thank you, Fleur.” And then something seemed to change, Hermione’s expression going from shy to heated in mere seconds. “You left without, without saying a word!”

Fleur took another small step back, subconsciously raising her hands, palms-up, as she began to defend herself. “Your ‘usband ‘ad arrived and I knew you would be safe-”

“So you decided it was ok to just leave? Without even saying goodbye?” Hermione asked, eyes flashing with hurt.

The brunette’s voice has risen in volume, drawing the attention of people who were walking past. Fleur noticed this and addressed her agitated friend in the calmest voice she could muster at that moment. “‘-ermione, zis might not be ze best place to ‘ave zis conversation. My ‘otel ees just up ze road. Shall we go to my room and discuss zis over a ‘ot beverage?”

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Hermione sat, her posture rigid, in one of the plump armchairs in the living room of the hotel suite Fleur currently called home. The short walk back to the hotel had been silent, and Hermione had battled herself to not walk close enough to Fleur to be able to feel the body heat emanating off the taller woman. Once they had reached the room, Fleur had offered her a seat and set off to make them some tea in the small kitchenette. “Don’t worry, eet won’t take as long as eet did when all we ‘ad was a trangia set wiz which to boil ze water,” the blonde had said with a smile, before taking brisk steps towards the kettle.

The anger had left Hermione’s body, and now all she wanted was answers. Why had Fleur left without so much as a goodbye? Did Hermione mean so little to her that she had no interest in ever seeing the woman again after their time together at Shell Cottage? A time that, despite the circumstances that had led to it, had been amongst the tranquil days of Hermione’s life? 

Fleur returned to the room and handed Hermione a cup. “Wiz a small dash of milk,” she said, before settling down in the armchair across from Hermione. 

“I do not really ‘ave a good explanation,” Fleur said, slowly. “At least not one zat will make sense when I say eet out loud.”

“Try me,” Hermione stated, not unkindly. 

Fleur took a deep breath. “I was waiting outside ze examination room you ‘ad been sent into. I zhink I must ‘ave been zere for, I don’t know, close to an ‘our? And well, zen your ‘usband showed up. ‘e seemed very worried, and ‘e asked me, or actually, ‘e asked everyone zat was een ze common waiting area as a ‘ole, where you were. So I pointed ‘im towards ze room you were een, and watched ‘im rush into eet.”

Hermione nodded. She recalled the irritated look Dr. Pomfrey had shot Ron when he had barged into the room unannounced and wrapped Hermione in a tight hug, ignoring both the medico and the stethoscope she had pressed against the brunette’s back to examine the condition of her chest. 

“And zen,” Fleur cast her eyes downwards, “well, you didn’t really need me anymore, non? Your ‘usband was zere, and I knew ‘e would take care of you from zere, so I...left?”

“Without saying goodbye?” Hermione pressed again.

She watched Fleur swallow. The blonde still refused to look her in the face. “Well, I...” She fell silent. 

For a few moments, neither woman spoke. Hermione’s eyes lingered on the delicate features she already knew she had missed, but seeing Fleur now had truly opened her eyes to just how much she had ached to be near the blonde again. Realizing that she probably wouldn’t get any more out of the Frenchwoman unless she initiated the conversation again, Hermione asked, “Why would you think, for even one moment, that I didn’t need you anymore?”

Her words caused shocked blue eyes to look up at her. Hermione watched a mix of emotions play in those orbs, before they settled on confusion. “What more could I ‘ave done?”

‘This is it,’ Hermione realized. There was no beating around the bush anymore. Closing her eyes, she pictured the dedication in Fleur’s latest book - To Anyone Who Needs a Reminder of How Brave They Truly Are – and then reopened her eyes with resolve. “I needed you, Fleur. I-,” she closed her mouth, trying to find the right words.

“You saved me. No, really, you did,” she reiterated, when Fleur half-rolled her eyes. “In more ways than one. I’m not just talking about how you cared for me when I showed up on your doorstep, half-dead. You cared for my _soul_. My time at Shell Cottage, it...it reminded me of who I am. Who I _truly_ am, on the inside. I had spent too much time these last few years just sleepwalking my way through life, not realizing how much I missed intellectually stimulating conversations and rainy days spent devouring a new book...you know, the smaller pleasures in life.”

Hermione paused. This is where she really needed her confidence to not betray her. “And I rediscovered love. What love is really supposed to be. You know, the I-am-so-crazy-about-you-that-I-literally-think-about-you-all-the-time-and-have-no-idea-of-how-to-survive-without-you kind of love.”

The brunette watched something fall in the blonde’s expression, and felt something sink in her own stomach as a result before Fleur schooled her appearance into a small smile. “Well zen, I am ‘appy zat your time at Shell Cottage ‘elped your marriage.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. ‘ _What?!_ ’ “What? No Fleur! I rediscovered that feeling because of you! I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since you disappeared without a trace!” Okay, so maybe she had planned to say that in a more romantic way when she was contemplating the many different ways this scene might play out while getting dressed this morning.

This time it was Hermione who couldn’t meet Fleur’s gaze. The silence seemed to stretch out forever before Fleur spoke, in a trembling voice. “You...you missed me?”

Hermione let out a little huff, looking up at Fleur with a defiant stare. “Really? That is what you’re taking from this? Yes Fleur, I missed you. Every single moment of every single day. You’re all I can think about.”

“But, Ron?” Fleur asked, seemingly incapable of formulating more of a sentence than that. 

“We got divorced,” Hermione admitted. “Pretty soon after I got back to London. I realized that, well, I didn’t feel for him the way someone should for someone they plan to spend the rest of their lives with. And that wasn’t fair on either of us.”

The brunette looked into carefully guarded blue eyes. “I didn’t come here expecting that you would reciprocate my feelings. But well, I guess I needed answers for why you left without leaving behind any information on how to find you. I tried looking you up on the Internet but obviously, you’ve managed to keep your real name a pretty good secret from your fans, and you always referred to your sister as ‘Gaby’, so the name Gabrielle Delacour never came up in any of my searches. I even called Ollivanders to see if that was where you had bought the Slytherin work from, but that was another dead end. And then, somehow, I stumbled upon Lost & Found in a bookstore last week, and-”

Fleur cut her off in a quiet voice. “I did not want you to be able to find me.”

Hermione blinked. “Oh.” Fleur’s words felt like a knife to the chest. She started to rise. “Well then, I’m sor-”

“No!” Fleur said, jumping to her own feet to stop the brunette’s movements. “I didn’t want to see you again because I zhot- I am not a big enough person to be able to see you ‘appy wiz someone else.”

Now it was Hermione’s turn to be shocked. She rose, slowly, looking the Frenchwoman in the eyes. “You mean...?”

“I mean, I suspect zat you are ze missing piece to me, ‘ermione,” Fleur said, honesty and a little bit of hope lacing her tone.

Hermione looked at the woman across her. This beautiful, intelligent blonde goddess who had cared for her in her most weakened state, and restored her zeal for all the good things life had to offer, and wondered if she had completely lost her mind and was merely imagining this whole conversation. And then Fleur smiled at her, and Hermione realized that even in her wildest dreams, Fleur’s smile had never been so bright. 

Without stopping to think, she took a big stride forward so she was toe-to-toe with the blonde, and leaned up to capture pink lips with her own. She felt slender arms encircle her own waist, pulling her torso closer to the blonde’s, and in return she wrapped her own arms around Fleur’s neck.

The kiss wasn’t perfect, not even close – it was messy, stick and almost desperate - but it was full of every emotion Hermione had felt over the last year as she had fruitlessly searched for the woman who had stolen her heart – longing, despair, hope, desire, love. Lips parted and tongues met, eliciting a throaty moan from Hermione that Fleur swallowed with a smile. Hermione felt warm fingers inch into the space where her light blue button-down shirt ended and her jeans began, caressing the soft skin there, and she pressed her body closer to Fleur’s.

When breathing became too much of an issue, Hermione pulled back from Fleur’s lips and began to kiss a trail down the blonde’s neck. She moaned again when the blonde’s hands moved lower to cup her butt through her jeans, resulting in a matching moan from Fleur that Hermione could feel reverberate beneath her lips. She parted her lips to bite down on Fleur’s throat, knowing, hoping, that her teeth would leave a mark. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Fleur said. The swear word sent a shot of arousal straight to Hermione’s core. “Stop! We need to stop,” the blonde added, sounding the least convinced Hermione had ever heard her. 

Still, she relented and retracted her lips from where they were getting acquainted with the sweet skin of Fleur’s neck, although without dropping her arms or really even stepping out of Fleur’s personal space. She stared up at cerulean eyes that had darkened to an almost midnight blue, filled with blown pupils that sent another course of excitement running through Hermione’s veins. She was the reason for Fleur’s current state. 

Hermione ran her tongue across her swollen lips, watching with pleasure when Fleur’s eyes zeroed in on the action. “Is something the matter, Fleur?” the brunette asked, her voice coming out as more of a purr.

Fleur lifted her gaze from Hermione’s lips, and took a deep, steadying breath. “We should stop while I still can, ‘ermione.”

Hermione tilted her head as she regarded the Frenchwoman. “Is that what you want? To stop?” 

Now it was Hermione whose eyes zeroed in on the action of Fleur’s throat rising and falling as the blonde swallowed. Fleur’s body language betrayed her and Hermione stepped even closer to whisper into her ear. “Because I don’t want to stop, Fleur. I want you. I have wanted you for a really long time, and whether it happens now or later, I plan to have you writhing in pleasure beneath me. So why delay the inevitable?”

Fleur let out a strangled moan, but Hermione wasn’t done teasing her just yet. “Would you like to see what you do to me?” she asked. Without waiting for an answer, she reached for one of Fleur’s hands even as she started peppering her neck with soft, open-mouthed kisses again, and began to lead her hand to where she really wanted it. Hermione kept her grasp gentle; Fleur could stop the movement anytime she wanted. 

Slowly, Hermione guided Fleur’s hand past her jeans, cradling it with her own as their digits slid past the denim, then into the top of the lace panties the brunette had on underneath, closer and closer to the heat that was radiating off Hermione’s core. The brunette stopped there, retracting her hand and leaving Fleur’s fingers tangled in the soft curls. 

Hermione pulled back again. Fleur’s eyes were closed, her expression appearing transfixed. “It seems to me that you have two choices, Fleur.”

The blonde opened her eyes, and Hermione could almost feel herself getting wetter at the blatant desire she saw there. The two locked gazes as Fleur started to drift her fingers downwards again. She moved slowly, deliberately, as if it was her turn to torment Hermione. It was all the brunette could do to stop herself from thrusting her hips forward so Fleur’s digits could be where she really wanted them right now. 

Hermione’s knees almost gave out when Fleur’s fingers parted her folds – they probably would have, if she hadn’t been holding onto the blonde’s neck - and both women let out strangled moans. “So wet,” Fleur marveled. Keeping her right hand where it was, she undid the button of Hermione’s jeans with the fingers of her left hand, lowering the zip and roughly pushing the offending piece of clothing down and out of the way, along with the lacy underwear. 

“All because of you, Fleur,” Hermione breathed out, her head lolling back onto her neck when the blonde ran a finger up and down the hot, sticky slit. “Mmm, you have no idea how many times I have imagined you touching me like this...”

Fleur growled. “Take your shirt off.”

Hermione regarded her through half-lidded eyes that carried a mischievous glint. “Are you sure-”

“Take eet off, or I weel rip eet off myself,” Fleur said. As if to make her point, she inserted the tip of a finger into Hermione before quickly withdrawing it, leaving Hermione panting for more.

“Oh God,” Hermione groaned, quickly reaching for the buttons of her shirt and undoing them as rapidly as she could. She popped the last button open and wrapped her arms around Fleur again. Her legs felt like jelly. 

She felt Fleur circle her slick clit with a finger while using her free hand to push Hermione’s bra up and out of the way, exposing her breasts. Standing there in her converse sneakers, with her jeans and panties pushed down to her knees, the two sides of her button-down shirt open and her bra pushed up to the top of her chest, Hermione had never felt less self-conscious. All she knew was that she was at the risk of spontaneously combusting if Fleur didn’t take her soon. 

“Fleur, please” she pleaded, her tone saying it all. Hermione wasn’t above begging at this point.

But Fleur clearly had other plans. The fingers that were toying with her clitoris stopped still, and instead she grasped Hermione’s left breast and gave it a squeeze. “Who do you belong to, ‘ermione?” Fleur asked, possessiveness dripping from her voice. 

Through her haze of arousal, Hermione managed to answer. “You, Fleur. I’m yours.”

Fleur hummed in approval, and her fingers began to play with the bundle of nerves that was currently the most important organ in Hermione’s body again. “Zat’s right. From now on, you are mine.”

Hermione nodded her head, vigorously agreeing with the Frenchwoman. Fleur had spoiled her for anyone else. “All yours, Fleur.”

And then Fleur leaned forward and wrapped her lips around a dark pink nipple as she simultaneously entered Hermione with two fingers. “Oh, fucccccck,” Hermione keened, holding on for dear life. Fleur began to pump her fingers in an out of the brunette, her lips and tongue alternating between Hermione’s breasts as she lavished them with attention. 

She added a third digit as Hermione attempted to meet her fingers with her own thrusts, before realizing that Fleur was guiding her back down into the arm chair without slowing her movements inside the brunette. Fleur crouched between Hermione’s parted legs when she was seated, throwing the limbs over her own strong shoulders, and bent her head to capture Hermione’s throbbing clitoris between her lips. 

Hermione’s hands tangled in blonde hair, pushing her pussy further into Fleur’s mouth. “Harder,” she choked out, willing the blonde to thrust even deeper. Hermione didn’t think she could be any more turned on, but realized she was wrong when she saw Fleur’s eyes watching her face as she fucked her. The brunette willed her own eyes to stay open; watching Fleur eat her out was the sexiest thing Hermione had ever seen. 

The brunette felt her climax start to build and she tried to match Fleur’s frenetic pace. Hermione could actually hear her wetness as the blonde moved in and out of her, driving her wild. “Oh yes, oh yes...fuck me...” Hermione grasped her own breast, giving it a hard squeeze. Fleur’s eyes tracked the movement, and her eyes took on an even more possessive sheen as she let out a growl against the bundle of nerves in her mouth. The resulting vibrations on Hermione’s clitoris were enough to send her over the edge and she screamed out Fleur’s name as she came. 

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

“You know, ze whole point of coming ‘ere was so I could get some work done,” Fleur said, panting up at the ceiling. She turned her head to look at Hermione, who looked very pleased with herself. 

“Well, its not like I’m forcing you to stay in bed,” Hermione replied. 

Fleur arched an eyebrow, inclining her head to pointedly stare at her hands, which were currently bound together and tied to the bedpost. “Ok, you _might_ have a point...” Hermione relented, not a hint of remorse on her features.

“I ‘ave married a nymphomaniac,” Fleur sighed dramatically. 

“Yes, but I’m your nymphomaniac,” the brunette smiled smugly.

“Zat you are,” Fleur agreed, smiling up at her wife. “Now ‘ow about you untie me so I can warm up my fingers in preparation for an afternoon of writing?” 

“Anything to help with your craft, my love,” Hermione grinned, pulling at the satin sash.

They both knew that Fleur wasn’t going to get any work done that day. 

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

THE END


End file.
